FLYING HOME
The drone of the engines, a crying child now and then,
A movie or music to try and ease the travel pain,
Smooth flying most of the time, bumps here and there
While flitting clouds below, then rich blue everywhere.

A meal to eat to help you pass the time, not bad,
Fours hours better than three days, I am so very glad,
The plane is really full, no empty seats seen at all,
There is a mystery about flying, why don’t they fall?

If you close your eyes, your mind drifts far, far away,
Not just across broad Canada, but to distant lands stray,
Through the clouds thick forests and lakes resolutely lie,
A long ribbon of road like a long snake slithering by.

No life is seen as we travel so fast, soon to be there,
Just a long, slim white vapour trail left in the silent air,
No other signs left that we had travelled far up so high,
How many glanced up to see a silver speck in the sky.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson 12 August 2004